Blood Drops on a White Rose
by TheOneThatGotAway99
Summary: Someone is hunting down ex-convicts with no regard to the severity of their crimes. From murder to petty theft, all brutally tortured and killed on a live webshow. FBI Violent Crimes has been trying to stop it without luck. But when sights are set on Neal Caffrey, can Peter and his team save the young con before it's too late or be forced to watch as he dies with no way to stop it?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Introduction: What started as just a generic Neal whump story, just to have a bit of fun starting out in a new fandom, has quickly grown into something much more. I blame too much sugar and not enough sleep. This is no longer my first foray, as I have dabbled with writing in this fandom several times this past year, but it still stands that this was my first White Collar story Idea. I'm throwing this chapter out there to test the waters a bit, see how many bites I get, though I do plan on finishing this. I do truly love Neal and his partnership (friendship, bromance, but never slash [nothing against it, but if it isn't in the show, it isn't in my stories]) with Peter . . . and I know not why I feel the need to unjustly torture them both so thoroughly. But, c'est la vie! The show must go on! Hold on to your puppy dog socks, ladies, gentlemen, and cons, 'cause boy are we in for a ride! (10/25/2014)_

_Disclaimer: If these characters belonged to me, they all would run and hide to the farthest reaches of the Earth to escape my sadistic mind. I'm so sorry Neal!_

_Warnings: Graphic descriptions of physical, mental, and emotional torture; not for the weak of stomach or faint of heart. Possible spoilers. Also, I am very prone to leaving cliffhangers. Almost every chapter, really. And long spans of time between chapters. You all have been warned._

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><p>~O~<p>

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><p>Neal Caffrey let loose a scream.<p>

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><p>Peter gripped the edge of the conference table with a white-knuckled grasp as Neal's bloodcurdling screams filled the air again, pouring from the speakers on either side of the monitor hung on the conference room wall.<p>

Despite the lowered volume, the screams still managed to pierce through the room, and out into the bullpen. Pale faces contorted with concern and helpless disgust showed on every agent within earshot of the sound. The clerks were close to tears, flinching with every new shriek of agony.

Peter's gaze burned into the smooth surface of the conference table, he being unable to look at the screen, unable to watch his partner's torment, but unable to let it go on without him.

Diana, who stood beside Peter, kept her eyes averted from the screen as well. She turned to her fellow junior agent. "Jones, turn it off. We—"

"No." Peter's rebuff was punctuated with a fresh scream, making everyone in the room wince. "No, we can't – I can't leave him like that alone. Get Tech to try running a search again. Trace the signal, scour the video; get me _something_ we can use to find him."

Diana opened her mouth as though to reply, looking as though even she wasn't sure what she would say, but Peter cut her off.

"I know he doesn't know we're watching, I realize that. But so long as he's in the hands of that psychotic son of a. . . So long as he's suffering, I won't leave him." He released his hold on the table, scrubbing his hands over his face before standing to his fullest height. Each cry from Neal was like a frigid knife pierced into Peter's heart, but he braced himself against it, knowing that he and his team were the only ones with the ability to find his missing partner before time ran out. He needed a clear head. "As bad as it is, his screaming at least means he's still alive. Let's find a way to keep him that way, people."

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><p>~O~<p>

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><p><strong>Blood Drops On a White Rose<strong>

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><p>Chapter One<p>

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><p>"Peter."<p>

"Neal."

"Not that this isn't fun," Neal said, sarcasm dripping as he flipped the page of the file he was reading. He took his feet off of Peter's desk. "But if I read one more page of this mortgage fraud case tonight, I'm packing up and sending _myself_ back to prison." To emphasize his point, he snapped the file closed.

"Yeah, guess we're not gonna get much more done tonight. You put out a good work effort today, how about I drive you home?"

"Sounds good to me." He flashed an appreciative smile as he stood and held the door open for Peter. They left Peter's office in darkness, making their way down the stairs and onto the bullpen floor. "Let me grab my hat." Neal made a bee-line for his work station, relieving his hat from the Socrates bust taking residence on his desk.

He jogged over to Peter, who was standing by the elevators, checking his pockets for his phone, wallet, and keys. Once they were all accounted for, Peter turned to Neal as they stepped into the elevator. "Maybe tomorrow a more interesting case'll come in."

"It has been a few days since we closed the last big one. Not sure I can take much more mortgage and insurance fraud."

"'Just don't make crimes like they used to, huh?" Peter joked.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Neal bantered back, "Not since I left the game."

"And yet, my job hasn't gotten any easier since then."

Neal flipped his hat gracefully onto his head, smiling up from under the brim being his only response.

A comfortable silence fell upon them as the elevator descended past the ground floor. They made their way through the nearly empty parking garage, into Peter's Taurus and out onto the darkened streets. They chatted amiably about nothing in particular as they neared June's mansion.

Peter parked outside the house, stopping beside the stairs. A gentle rain had started about halfway through their journey, so Peter got as close as he could to the house to try and save Neal's suit from the mild downpour as much as possible.

As Neal reached for the door handle, Peter suddenly turned to him. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot. El's invited you to dinner tomorrow night, if you're not busy. She's got a new batch of h'orderves to try out and wants an 'expert opinion' as she said. Apparently my plain ol' palette isn't advanced enough," he joked with a smirk.

Neal smiled. "Tell her it would be my pleasure. Seven o'clock?"

"Ah-hmm," Peter confirmed.

"Great. I'll bring wine. See you in the morning, Peter." He pushed open the door and stepped out.

"Bye, Neal," his partner called before Neal shut the door and hurried up the stairs to June's.

As Peter's car drove out of sight, Neal stretched his hand towards the door, only to stop as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He glanced around as the feeling of eyes watching him persisted, but he couldn't see far in the dark and rain.

Making a mental note to inform June to be cautious, he pushed the feeling aside for now. He eased the door open and slipped inside, securely shutting and locking it behind him before heading up the stairs to his apartment.

_To be continued. . ._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: If these characters belonged to me, they all would run and hide to the farthest reaches of the Earth to escape my sadistic mind. _

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><p>~O~<p>

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><p><strong>Blood Drops On a White Rose<strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter Two<p>

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><p>By the next morning, the strange feeling from the night before was mostly forgotten as Neal stepped off the elevator onto the twenty-first floor. The sudden hustle and bustle around the office after days of little to do but paperwork only served to further push the event from his mind.<p>

Glancing up at the glass wall of the conference room, he spotted Peter, Clinton, and Diana discussing something with Hughes. Agent Ruiz and two other men – agents, most likely, by the way they were dressed – that Neal hadn't met before were also there. The conversation seemed to be rather heated, from what Neal could tell from body language alone. Diana had her arms crossed as she glowered across the table at one of the two men he didn't know; Peter had his hands on his hips in his default stance, frustration obvious in the firm set of his jaw. Despite standing with one hand leaning on the file strewn table, the only hint of weariness shown as Peter tried – and apparently failed – to make his point, Hughes still managed to hold authority over the entire room. Ruiz seemed to be arguing just as hard as Peter was, while the unknown men just stood there as back-up. Jones seemed to be the least effected by the events transpiring before him, though he was also just generally better at hiding his ire.

As soon as Clinton saw Neal walk into the bullpen, he set off for the conference room door. He opened it and stepped out, beckoning Neal forward. "Caffrey."

Ever one to quench his curiosity, Neal followed Clinton without qualm.

". . . 's obviously a White Collar case," Peter was saying as Neal entered the room.

"Three security guards were killed, brutally. It's Violent Crimes', Burke," was Ruiz's reply. Neal had been right about a disagreement going on between them, apparently about jurisdiction of a particular case.

"Isn't the VC unit already working a mid-profile case?" Diana shot back. "The Webcam Killer. How's that going for you?"

_Webcam Killer?_ Neal thought. He didn't recognize that name. He would have to remember to ask about that one later.

Ruiz ignored Diana's sardonic second question and instead focused on dismissing the first. "My team can handle more than one case at a time. Come on Hughes, this conversation is pointless. You know as well as I do whose case this should be."

"You both make a valid point," Hughes replied as diplomatically as possible, seeming to be on the edge of frustration. "But the higher-ups are insisting on encouraging inter-departmental relations. They want both teams working together on this case. And I do stress _together_. I don't want this becoming some kind of pissing contest. Are we clear?"

A silent moment passed, filled with grumbling that was mostly implied rather than voiced, before Peter and Ruiz both – begrudgingly and reluctantly – agreed to the terms. Reece dismissed them, then headed off to his office.

Taking his chance, Neal moved to stand beside Peter. "So, what's the case?" he asked, breaking the silence. He instantly had the room's attention.

"A robbery at The Metropolitan Museum of Art," was Peter's distracted reply. He seemed to be deep in thought and – dare Neal think it – pouting, just a little bit, though Neal was sure that he was the only one to notice that. "Four guards were stabbed repeatedly, three died at the scene, the other remains in critical condition."

"What was stolen?" he asked solemnly, ignoring the looks he was getting from the two Violent Crimes agents he didn't know. He reached out to pick up one of the folders lying on the conference room table.

"Tullio Lombardo's _Adam_."

Neal nearly choked in his shock, but the only outward sign of his surprise was a few second pause in his breathing. "As in the fifteenth century venetian marble statue that was accidentally smashed into _hundreds_ of pieces back in 2002, then underwent a twelve year restoration period before finally being redisplayed in the Met starting six months ago until June, in which it will begin its world tour. That _Adam_?"

"That's the one." Peter raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. Everyone in the White Collar division was used to Neal's encyclopedic knowledge of the art world.

"Wow. I'd be impressed if whoever it was didn't have to kill to get it."

One of the Violent Crimes agents scoffed scornfully, making Neal to frown slightly in bemusement. He wasn't sure what had caused that reaction to his words, but he didn't bother asking, as the sound seemed to break Peter of his reverie and remind him of the other parties in the room with him.

"Oh, Neal, I don't know if you've met them yet or not. This is Special Agents Hendricks and Abbot of the Violent Crimes Unit," Peter introduced, indicating each to their name.

Hendricks had short blonde hair – cut in a close crew, slightly tanned skin, and a very prominent jaw line; the angle of his brow bone gave the impression that he was always angry. An ex-military man, Neal figured, judging by his stance and posture. Marine, maybe. Abbot's jet black hair was slightly longer and his skin paler, like he usually spent too much time indoors. His blue-green eyes held a sharply calculating gaze. Both men wore cheap suits – something Mozzie had declared as the standardized dress code of all FBI "goons" – and looked to be in their mid to late thirties to early forties. Hendricks' suit was neat, a faded black set with a ghastly green tie, but seemed almost messy compared to Abbot's meticulously straight light grey suit and deep blue tie.

Neal kept his observations from his expression with the ease of many years of practice, offering his most charming smile and a hand to shake. "Pleasure to meet you."

Abbot wordlessly blew him off, glancing away disinterestedly, but Hendricks stepped forward and took his hand. An obviously fake half-smile crossed the agent's face as he seemed to try and crush Neal's hand, arching his shoulders and puffing out his chest in an unconscious show of dominance and intimidation. _Or maybe not so unconscious_, Neal thought to himself.

"So you're the infamous Neal Caffrey. Hm, you're smaller than I thought you'd be," Hendricks said, by way of greeting, releasing Neal's hand, but not stepping back.

Neal blinked, not sure how to reply to that. His first instinct was to make a clever remark about how being smaller made it easier to squeeze out of tight places, but he held his tongue, figuring Hendricks for a man who didn't appreciate sarcasm unless voiced by himself alone. Neal's smile never faltered – he was all about first impressions – and a second later, Hendricks continued anyway.

"So how does it feel working _for_ the law you used to make a career of breaking?" This man had obviously already decided he didn't like Neal, but Neal was determined to try and change his opinion. Neal allowed his charming smile to morph into an earnest expression.

Snide question, meet honest answer. "It has its benefits. The rewards are a lot less monetary and materialistic, but I get to help people instead of hurt them. Plus, I get the privilege to work with one of the best agents the bureau's ever had." Neal said the last part with the smallest of playful grins, inclining his head in Peter's direction. He caught the corner of Peter's mouth twitching upwards in his peripheral vision, before his partner pursed his lips to keep from smiling. Hendricks, however, looked stumped by Neal's reply.

Before anyone could respond, though, Ruiz cleared his throat to get their attention. "Don't you two have work to do?" he asked his men, and a second later they both marched out of the room without another word. Ruiz soon followed after.

"Nice to meet you, too," Neal mumbled once they were out of earshot.

Peter smirked, clapping the younger man on the back. "Don't feel too bad, Neal. That actually went better than I had expected." When Neal quirked a questioning eyebrow, Peter elaborated. "Hendricks and Abbot have both been rather loud in their protests against ex-convicts being taken on as consultants."

"You never know, maybe I can change their minds about it," he replied, remembering Agent Hendricks' reaction to Neal's comment.

"If you manage to change either of their minds by the time we finish this case, I'll buy you lunch every day for a week."

_Challenge accepted_, Neal thought, seeing what Peter was doing. "I'll take that deal." While the bet may have been offered in jest, the reasons behind it ran much deeper. It gave Neal a new problem to work out along with the case, keeping Neal happily occupied, while also, hopefully, broadening the views of FBI agents that might otherwise remain blinded by their own misconceptions.

Changing the subject back to the case at hand, Neal said, "So, White Collar and Violent Crimes working together. . ."

"Yup."

"It's going to turn into a race for the finish line, isn't it?"

"Oh yes."

Neal grinned, straightening his tie. "Well then, let's get to work."

_To be continued. . ._

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><p><em>Author's Note: 1122/2014 (Edited 7/18/2015 for quality) I hope you all aren't disappointed that my 'generic Neal whump' story has evolved into an actual plot-line/case-fic. I will attempt to make it as entertaining as possible until the whump arrives ;D Lastly, I am floored by how many followers this story already has from just one little chapter. Fifty-six in only twenty-eight days! Wow! Until next time! Love you all! Take care! God bless!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Hazah! It is here! I'm still trying to nail down timelines a bit. I think this is sometime within season four – I will be referencing events from the first three to four seasons *spoiler alerts! – but it will not focus on any of the goings ons of that season. We'll just put a big, vague 'season four-ish' sticker on this bad boy right now. As for the case, I have done some research into the statue and other marble works (and various things that I won't mention until later and that has me thankful the FBI can't look at my search history without probable cause) and studied the museum map of the Met, but everything else is pretty much entirely made up. My research goes more into the later chapters, this is just a stepping stone to that. Also, I added another little beginning 'peak' piece. Enjoy!_

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><p>~O~<p>

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><p>Neal Caffrey let loose a sob.<p>

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><p>Peter wasn't sure which hurt him more, listening as Neal screamed himself hoarse or sobbed himself into an exhausted half-sleep.<p>

It was late into the night, but the White Collar office was still bustling, as close to frantic as FBI Agents could get. Searching for one of their own. Peter would have felt proud of his team, if he wasn't so consumed with worry for his partner.

Peter looked up at the image on the screen, at his partner cowering and crying in a corner God only knew where. He had been left alone for the night, whatever small mercy that was. Even with how reliant his young partner was on human interaction, isolation was better than the tortures Neal was being put through.

_Torture._

Because that's what it was, actions meant only to bring another person pain; torture in its purest, cruelest form.

A sound had Peter's frayed focus solidified once more onto the scene of his best friend's suffering. It took him a moment to realize that sound was Neal mumbling to himself, his voice strained and rough and so completely _un-Neal_ that it was another few seconds before he could make out the words. What he heard broke his heart for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

"_Peter's coming for me. Peter'll find me. He's coming._"

He repeated it like a mantra, a confident verse resonating again and again. Neal had complete faith in Peter, knew without a doubt that he would find him and save him from that hell.

But Peter was no closer to finding him than when he had first started. No closer to uncovering who was behind it all. No closer to stopping the agony his friend was being put through. No closer. . .

For the moment, all he could do was watch, knowing that Neal's pain was at least partially his fault.

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><p>~O~<p>

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><p><strong>Blood Drops On a White Rose<strong>

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><p>Chapter Three<p>

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><p>As much as Neal didn't like walking up to crime scenes – well, crime scenes that are crime scenes because of death or violence as opposed to spectacular thefts or daring escapes – he couldn't deny the flicker of glee inside himself every time a CS tech or federal agent lifted the yellow tape for him to duck under.<p>

When he'd first become Agent Burke's CI, the only person who would lift the tape for him was Peter. The rest of the time, Neal did it himself without a second thought; sometimes he would even hold it for Peter, Diana, and Clinton, as well as other agents, to go before or follow after him. Ever the gentlemen, after all.

But as the other agents got used to him being around, started seeing him less as ex-convict got lucky and more as an asset, colleague, and, even, friend, he found doors opened and tape lifted for him far more often.

Though he would likely never admit it aloud, it made him feel important and, secretly, like he belonged. That feeling was only enhanced with the knowledge that it was truly earned and not merely gained through cons and lies.

He tried not to let it make him wonder what things would have been like if he had followed through with his childhood dream of becoming a police officer. Those were thoughts he'd rather not deal with sober. Or, at all.

As Peter and he walked up to the taped-off entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Neal's thoughts were consumed with the case – or, what little he knew of it so far. He felt the usual gleam of childish glee as an agent lifted the crime scene tape for him and Peter to step under. He nodded his thanks to the burly agent before following Peter through the entrance hall and into the great staircase.

Unbidden, his mind cataloged the security measures and exit strategies of the space around him, taking in the security cameras, sensors, alarm triggers, and such, as well as counting the number of guns currently in the room. He quickly switched mental tracks and ended up thinking about all the priceless treasures that lay on the floors above, but figured that train of thought probably wasn't any better, so he focused on figuring out how he would have stolen the _Adam_ if it had been his job.

As they made their way through the Medieval Art exhibit into the European Art room, and Neal was confronted with the sickening smell of drying blood, he couldn't help but think there certainly would have been at least one major difference if he had been the thief. _Nobody would have died, that's for sure._

The bodies of the three dead security guards had already been removed from the scene, numerous puddles of congealing blood clearly indicating where each had lain even better than the crime scene markers specifying each one.

Neal noticed Peter frown in confusion before the older man turned to one of the agents and asked where the bodies were, to which the other agent responded with "Coroner sent them off."

"I am lead agent on this case, those bodies were not to be removed until I had arrived on the scene." He huffed out a breath, looking around in frustration before focusing back on the poor agent. "Why wasn't I notified?"

Confused frown and worried eyes met Peter's frustration as the young agent spluttered. "But, the other agent . . ."

"Burke."

Neal stiffened slightly at the sudden voice and saw Peter clench his jaw in response before spinning around.

"Ruiz," Peter returned coolly. Taking the sudden distraction as his cue, the young agent Peter had been grilling wisely decided to skitter away while he could, going unnoticed by everyone but Neal. "I'm lead on this case. Why did you dismiss the bodies before I got here?"

Agent Ruiz stepped closer to Peter, and Neal could tell from his body language – _straightening of his spine, leaning forward ever so slightly, maintaining eye contact, carefully composed facial expression_ – Ruiz was trying to intimidate the agent. Neal could also tell that it wasn't working. "You may be lead on the theft, but the bodies are mine. This should have been my case. It's only on Hughes' orders that I'm letting you into my crime scene."

Not giving any time to reply, Ruiz marched away and out the door.

A moment passed before Neal took it upon himself to break the tense silence. "Well, I can see interdepartmental relations are going well."

Peter's responding huff made him sound oddly like a bull snorting, but it was more of amused agreement than annoyance, so Neal counted it as a win.

They made their way into the statue room where they found another puddle of blood next to an empty pedestal. A number of agents roamed and loitered around the room, some collecting evidence, some discussing the case. A trio of them moved towards Neal as soon as they spotted him, and Neal recognized Agent Hendricks. The other two, one male and one female, he didn't know, but he guessed them to be the rest of Ruiz's Violent Crimes unit. They all stopped just a few feet away from him and Peter.

"So that's Caffrey?" sneered the female, and Neal had to repress a sigh. _Another someone who dislikes me before we've even met. . ._

"Baker," Peter acknowledged, the smallest trace of weariness in his tone that Neal was sure only he heard. "Glad to see you're back in the field again. How's the shoulder?"

Agent Baker's sneer fell from her face as she turned to Peter. "Fully recovered." Something in her tone struck Neal as odd, but he couldn't quite place what it was. She gave a curt nod, fiery red hair bouncing slightly, before she indicated Neal. "Should he be here? Seems like an awful lot of _temptation_ for someone like him."

"I think I can contain myself," Neal responded with a small, reassuring smile. Choosing to speak for himself and insert himself into the conversation. After all, he did have a bet to win. For once, honesty might truly be the best policy. "Three people died because of this, and one still might. I'm not going to mess around with this. I'm here to help."

Hendricks, standing just behind Baker, grunted at that, but didn't say anything. His mind seemed to be working hard on the puzzle that was Neal Caffrey. Neal hoped if he gave enough pieces, the agent might see a different picture than the one he'd been imagining and change his opinion of the conman.

"By all means," Baker replied, folding her arms over her chest, only a hint of contempt still audible. "Go right on, then."

He gave a slow nod before turning to the _Adam_'s empty pedestal.

The first thing Neal noticed was the blood, spattered and smudged, on the front of the pedestal. Ignoring the roiling it sent to his stomach, he examined it closer, taking in the pattern before moving on to the fresh scrapes that decorated the top. It looked as though something heavy had been dragged across it.

"How did they get the statue out?" The question directed at Peter, who was watching his progress while examining it himself. "You can't just pick up a seven hundred seventy pound marble statue and walk out with it."

"Forklift. Elevators. Out through the parking garage," Peter said, answering his next two questions without his needing to voice them.

Nodding absently, Neal crouched down as his sharp eyes spotted something. Small wood shavings – like that from screws shaving holes in wood as they are secured in – were scattered on the ground around the stand; a few of them were stuck in the dots of spattered blood, but not under it. That discovery solidified Neal's take on what happened.

"Security footage?" Peter was asking the other agents as Neal ran through the theft in his mind.

Hendricks was the one to answer Peter's question. "Nothing yet. We're sending it to Tech, see if they can work anything out. Tapes were tampered with."

"Inside job?"

Baker answered that time. "Maybe, but not likely. Looks like they just jammed the cameras somehow."

Neal straightened up and stepped back to Peter's side as the conversation came to a close, confident in the information he had gathered.

"Got anything?" Peter questioned.

Neal responded without missing a beat. "They attacked the guard first. Either he surprised them or they surprised him. They built a wood crate around the _Adam_, probably with fork holes on the sides. Protects the statue and hides it from view. Doing it quickly would be loud though. They attacked the other three guards, probably alerted by the noise, on their way out."

"How do you figure all that?" Baker interjected derisively.

"There's no bloody tire tracks down the hallway, so the security guards had to have been attacked after they'd already passed. Patterns in the blood on the pedestal show that the statue was still there, uncovered, when this man was killed, so he must have been attacked first. Wood shavings on the ground and gouges on the pedestal show that the thieves probably screwed together crate pieces around the statue, likely padded and braced to ensure its safety before lifting and driving it out of here. Boxing it for transport, it's what I would have done," Neal explained, looking mournfully at the pool of blood, again thinking that no one would have died if it had been his heist.

"Wow," said a new voice, and Neal shifted his eyes up to the man hanging just behind Baker and Hendricks. He sounded sincerely impressed, and Neal wondered if maybe not everyone hated him. "You figured all that out in three minutes?"

"_That_ is why Neal is my CI," Peter announced proudly, and Neal couldn't stop the smallest of smiles crossing his lips and the happy up-tilt of his head at his partner's words.

"That was awesome. You're like the Sherlock Holmes of art thefts. You do that all the time?"

"Oh shut up, Lennon," Baker snapped. "Why don't you just marry him."

"Sorry." The man stepped around Hendricks and towards Neal, offering his hand and a friendly smile, both of which Neal gratefully returned. "Keith Lennon, probationary agent, Violent Crimes department."

Lennon couldn't have been more than three or four years older than Neal and was eager in a way that only agents fresh from the academy could be. His suit looked to be about a size too big, which gave him an impression of a kid wearing his father's clothes and made him look younger than he was, as did his slightly shaggy brown hair and excited brown eyes. "Good to meet you Keith Lennon, probationary agent," Neal replied in amusement.

"Lennon, don't you have work to do?" Baker demanded, inadvertently repeating Ruiz's dismissal of Hendricks and Abbot only an hour ago.

Lennon got the hint and backed off, but Peter was the one to speak. "Right, we'll leave you to it then. Neal, let's go follow the thieves' exit route."

Nodding his head in farewell to the three agents, Neal followed Peter back out into the Medieval Art room, right into the main exhibit room, then into the Making Pottery Art exhibit as they headed towards the elevators to the ground floor. As soon as they were out of earshot of the roving, random agents, Neal turned to Peter. "Blood stains marble," he informed in a low voice so as not to be overheard. "Especially when left to set."

"Okay," Peter replied, more to prompt Neal to continue than in understanding.

"The guard's blood had to of gotten on at least the base of the statue before they boxed it up, and unless they plan on displaying it in whatever hidey-hole they have it stashed in, spot it, and wipe it off before it fully sets, it won't be coming off. They won't be able to just bleach restored fifteenth century Venetian marble. They are going to need expert help."

"Let me guess, you know just the man for the job." Peter sent him a knowing smirk. "You have a plan?"

Neal smiled in reply. He loved this, working through problems with Peter, planning ways to catch the bad guys. Thrill of the chase he missed upon occasion; but thrill of the hunt he enjoyed almost more so. "Moz and I can send it down the grapevine that a marble art expert has recently taken up residence here in New York. By the time they discover their mistake, that information will be readily available."

Peter seemed to absorb that for a moment. "How long do you think it will take?"

Neal's eyes wandered as he considered his answer. His gaze caught on a display near them, a square vase in a glass display case. It stood just over a foot tall, made in the late 1880s judging by the visible texture of the porcelain. French design, like most of the pieces in the room. But it was the color that drew his eye. The base coat was a stark white, peaking out mostly at the neck of the vase and along its corner edges, but the main body was painted a deep red that was eerily similar to the puddles of spilt blood congealing on the floor in the other room. Neal looked away. "A day, maybe two. It won't take long."

"Good. Give the little guy a call on our way to the hospital. We should look in on the surviving security guard, see if he's able to talk to us about what happened."

"Okay," Neal agreed.

And with that, the two of them stepped over to the elevators and descended to the ground floor.

_To be continued. . ._

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><p><em>Author's Notes: 131/15 (Edited 7/18/2015 for quality) Right, okay. Sorry for all the OCs in these past two chapters. Ruiz needed a team, so I had to make him one. Hope no one minds too much, but it is important for the story. I will not write from the direct perspective of any of these OCs because stories that do that annoy me to no end._

_Anyways, now we are starting to get somewhere. Tell me what you think so far. Any ideas on what might happen? I would very much like to hear your theories as the story progresses. Also, hope you all had a great holiday. That is why this chapter is a month overdue. I couldn't write it over Christmas! ;D On the plus side, it is a particularly long chapter, and delves rather nicely into this little mystery, if I do say so myself. See ya next time! Love ya! Take care all! God bless!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	4. Chapter 4

~O~

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><p><strong>Blood Drops On a White Rose<strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter Four<p>

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><p>The journey to the parking garage proved uninformative, the only evidence to be found were the tire tracks from the forklift that disappeared at the edge of the loading platform. The cement flooring was covered in various rubber burns and tire marks, so gaining clues about the suspects' vehicle from that would be impossible, but Neal voiced that it would have to have been a trailer truck or large panel van in order to fit the statue without drawing any attention.<p>

Peter had just brought up the possibility of a U-Haul trailer of some kind, simply for the sake of exploring all options, when an agent came to inform them that the curator had arrived and was available for questioning. It was a different agent than the one Peter had cornered back in the museum, but seemed nervous nonetheless, Neal noted in equal parts pity and amusement. The agent led them back to the first floor and towards the main entrance, stopping in front of a man in a blue suit.

The suit looked moderately expensive; tailored, but not new. Not vintage either, but still functional business attire. The man, presumably the museum's curator, wore a diagonally striped tie in varying shades of blue and black, held in place by a gold tiepin with the initials H. C. M. engraved on it; his feet were clad in black leather loafers. The man's thinning white hair made him seem older than Neal guessed he was, but there was certainly still a decent amount of wrinkles creasing his slightly loose skin.

"I'm Agent Peter Burke, FBI White Collar. This is my CI, Neal Caffrey. You're the curator of this museum, correct?" Peter announced, stepping forward.

"Yes. Henry McGullens," the man replied, shaking Peter's offered hand, then Neal's. Neal noted that the man's – McGullens's – handshake was firm, but swift, before the cold, long-fingered hand was withdrawn back to his side, wringing nervously.

"What can you tell us about the missing piece?" Peter asked.

"Well, I'm sure you already know about the tragic occurrence back in '02: the fall of a Renaissance masterpiece. It took us longer than originally anticipated to restore it, but our conservationists conducted many thorough and extensive researchings into glues, marbles, and various restoration techniques that will prove invaluable to many historic art conservations in the future."

The man continued in a similar manner, droned on about Tullio Lombardo and the history of the statue. Neal thought he sounded oddly like a history text, dull in his reciting of facts of the past without changing his intonations at all. _It's either stress_, Neal decided, _or this man has no passion for his job_. Nonetheless, he made note of it for later.

"How long have you worked here?" Peter asked when McGullens's uninformative recitation was completed.

"Three years this August. The previous curator, Dr. Chamberman, retired shortly before the Lombardo statue reached its last stage of restoration."

Again it was stated in a monotone, and again Neal saw McGullens's pale hands wringing nervously. _A nervous tic or unconscious tell?_ Neal wondered silently. Aloud he asked, "Why did he leave before the statue was restored if he knew it was almost completed?"

"_Forced_ retirement," McGullens corrected, and finally there was a change in his tone, as well as an almost dangerous flash in his eyes.

Peter must have seen it as well, as the next question he asked was, "And how did you come to take up his position?"

The slightest prideful up-tilt of his head, causing him to look down his nose at Peter, and an arrogant note dripped from his cool tone. "I have the highest qualifications of those considered for the position and I have friends in high places." Before Peter or Neal could ask another question, McGullens continued. "Now, I'm not sure I like what you are implying, Agent, but perhaps I should call my lawyer?"

Neal could clearly see the bottled sigh of frustration that Peter repressed before carefully saying, "That is completely within your rights to do so."

"Mr. McGullens," Neal said, trying to ease the sudden tension. "We're all here for the same reason. Someone stole a priceless work of art, killing and wounding several guards in the process. We only want to return it to where it belongs before any more harm can be done."

His attempt to restore civility was only partially successful; while the arrogance dropped from his tone, his focus was then directed towards Neal instead. "Caffrey. . . Caffrey. Where do I know that name from?"

Before Neal could think of a convincing story, Peter took it upon himself to end the conversation. He finished by holding out a card. "If you think of anything that could be of any help towards the investigation, please do not hesitate to call."

"Right." And just like that, the monotone was back. The curator took the card and slid it into an inside coat pocket. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have work to do, sorting out this mess. Best of luck and good day."

As the man turned towards the stairs, Neal and Peter set off in the opposite direction and out the front entrance.

"Well, _he_ was a total waste of time," Peter announced in frustration the moment they had ducked under the police tape again.

"He was definitely hiding something."

"Nothing to do with the statue, though."

Neal just nodded, not bothering to disagree. He had gotten a similar feeling and knew Peter had seen the tic as well.

Peter called Jones on their way back to the Taurus, and told him to let Peter know as soon as the Techs finished working the security footage, in case Ruiz tried to cut them out of that too. The drive to the hospital was quick, despite the traffic, and Neal had just finished filling Moz in on the plan over the phone when he and Peter pulled into the visitor parking lot.

"Right, yeah. We'll find a place," Neal said into the cell pressed to his ear as Peter turned off the ignition. Neal glanced at him for a moment before he again spoke into the phone, "I know, Moz. I'll be careful. And, hey, how's June's coming? . . . Yeah. . . See you then. Thanks again, Moz."

"Everything okay?" Peter asked, rather predictably really, as Neal slid his phone into his pocket and unfastened his seatbelt.

"Sure, yeah. Why wouldn't it be?" Neal countered easily. Apparently, Peter saw right through it. He shouldn't be surprised. Peter knew him too well sometimes.

"What did Mozzie say?"

"He's looking into a place I can use as a marbles workshop once word spreads," he hedged, hoping a taste is all Peter would ask for.

"And June's?" the agent questioned.

"Having the place checked for bugs," he supplied. "You can never be too careful. Moz checks my place weekly, but the whole house hasn't been done in a while."

Peter accepted this with a hum and Neal figured he was in the clear. Fate seemed to be against him today, however, as a moment later Peter asked, "Now, what aren't you telling me?"

With a sigh of silent defeat, Neal decided there was no point trying to evade that one. It was obviously too much to hope Peter would let it go. "There's been some chatter on the streets lately. Something's got the not-quite-so-law-abiding citizens of New York spooked. The reason as to why is still a mystery to us, but Moz is stressing extra vigilance none the less."

"Anything I can do?"

_Peter, just you offering already soothes my nerves_, Neal thought as he expertly suppressed a warm smile for his best friend. "I'll let you know."

"Neal."

Neal looked back at Peter, who had turned in his seat to face his partner head on. He wanted Neal to understand he meant it, that he was here if Neal needed him. Neal could read it all in his eyes. "I'll let you know," he repeated sincerely, blue eyes meeting brown.

"Okay." With a nod, a seemingly satisfied Peter undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. Neal quickly fell into step behind him, smoothing down his suit jacket as they made their way across the parking lot and into the hospital.

After checking in at the front desk, a flash of FBI credentials got them the room number of the security guard, and they made their way to the Intensive Care Unit on the third floor.

Timothy Vander, age forty-three, stabbed eleven times; still in critical condition. He hadn't woken up the entire time he had been emitted.

Peter and Neal spoke with Mr. Vander's doctor, Dr. Carmen, a slim middle aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and hazel eyes. "Mr. Vander has been stabbed eleven times in the chest and abdomen areas," he explained. "Nicked his liver and a lung, only just missing his heart. Severe internal exsanguination into his chest cavity, collapsing his lung. We've patched him up as best we can. Given him transfusions to counteract the hypovolemia. Honestly, I'm amazed he even made it to the ER."

"What's the likelihood of him regaining consciousness?" Neal knew Peter wasn't asking if Mr. Vander would wake up in time to give a statement, he was only asking towards his wellbeing. To Peter, human lives always came before solving cases.

"I'm going to be blunt with you, Agent," Dr. Carmen stated, ushering Neal and Peter further from listening ears. "If Mr. Vander survives the next twenty-four hours, I will be shocked. With the extent of his injuries and the amount of time it took for him to receive medical attention, the blood loss alone. . . Well, I've done all I can. For now, my team and I can only keep him comfortable and hope for the best."

Not much more was said after that, and shortly thereafter Neal and Peter took their leave.

Legwork completed for the time being, they head back to the FBI office. The car ride remained in a morose silence the entire way, each man lost in his thoughts.

_To be continued. . ._

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><p><em>Author's Note: 718/2015 This is not where I wanted to end this chapter, but I've made you all wait for so long I feel the need to give you something. I am slightly miffed at how little information there is available on _Adam_ before it fell. I largely blame that for instigating my delay (life just kept prolonging it), as I had to search rather hard just to gather the info I do have. I mean, it is an actual masterpiece with an actual, if vague, history! I don't want to just make stuff up! Everything else is made up! xD_

_If all goes to plan (not that life seems to cooperate with my writing ever) I hope to get more of the plot going within the next three(ish) chapters. I have big plans!_

_Last thing, I need a bit of help from you guys. I'm looking for chapter titles for this story. I want them to mean something, but they do not necessarily need to relate to the events of each chapter, so much as the story as a whole. I'm trying something knew here, and I am happily taking suggestions (poems, book or song titles, lines, lyrics, anything that makes some sort of sequence with enough leeway to fit however many chapters I end up with). I do not have an estimated number of chapters, nor can I give anyone any special information pertaining to the story. Sorry. If you have an idea, let me know. I'll credit you for it. Thanks! And let me just tell you, your reviews are what remind me that this could be a good story if I just remember to keep at it. Don't let me leave you all hanging for too long, okay? Give me a good kick in the rump so I get moving for you all. I love you guys! Take care! God bless!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


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